


'To Mend Hurts, Not Cause Them.'

by AloryShannon



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age RPG
Genre: Dragon Age RPG - Freeform, Gen, OC backstory, Semi AU, Tabletop RPGs FTW, Tal has ISSUES, but not nearly as many as most protags lbr, pre-DA:O
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AloryShannon/pseuds/AloryShannon
Summary: Taliesin wasn't always a Circle Mage, and there's a definite reason why he insisted on giving himself a last name.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my character's backstory for the Dragon Age Tabletop RPG (which, if you haven't played it and like DA and tabletop games at all--GO DO THE THING). I started writing it up, and then when I was about four pages in, I realized that...I was basically writing fanfiction. I quite like the story I came up with, and there are canon characters mixed in with the OCs, who *should* still fit into the world as it is, so...I decided to post it here. :]

The child’s eyes were an unsettling green, the swordmaster decided.

Maxwell the Hunter studied Taliesin, the first son and eldest child of his master, Arl Gallagher Wulff of West Hills, watching as the eleven-year-old carefully looked both ways before letting himself into the arl’s library, leaving the door just slightly ajar. The old swordsmaster waited a handful of seconds, counting to fifteen in his head with the measured slowness of an experienced tracker, giving the child time to move away from the door and occupy himself with whatever had first drawn him to the library. Then Maxwell moved to the door, pushing it open just wide enough to let him set his eyes on the boy again, to see what sort of mischief he’d found.

A tame enough sort of mischief, as it turned out: Taliesin had a large book spread open on the arl’s desk, and was leaning over it to peer intently at the pages. Even from where he stood in the doorway clear across the room, Maxwell’s sharp old eyes could still make out the shape of an intricately-inked dragon taking up nearly one whole side of the open book, its neck and tail coiling around the words on the opposite side.

The old swordsmaster found himself smiling, and it was tempting to simply step away from the door and continue on his way, as if he hadn’t seen the child at all. But Taliesin was his charge, and the lad had responsibilities that were meant to be attended to before he was allowed to do as he wished--something he was clearly aware of, judging by the surreptitious way he’d entered his father’s study. So, after another handful of seconds had passed, Maxwell pushed the door open just slightly wider, and gave a pointed cough, followed by an equally pointed clearing of his throat, in case Taliesin was so deeply enthralled in the book that he missed that first subtle noise.

There was no need, however; at that low cough, the boy gave a start, slamming the book closed and whirling about in one fluid motion, his expression deeply guilty, his brilliant green eyes wide with alarm as he searched the area behind him.

Even there in the dim library, that green truly was a striking shade, Maxwell though, different from that of either of his parents, and there was a light to them that almost seemed to come from inside… Arl Wulff had piercing eyes, it was true, but they were still nothing like Taliesin’s, which were odd enough for the old mercenary-turned-swordmaster to feel...not precisely anxious, but perhaps just a bit unsettled whenever the boy met his gaze overlong. Taliesin was intelligent, that much was clear, and inclined to watch and listen intently before acting, though much like his father, when he did decide to act, it was always bold and decisive, and rarely something he apologized for.

All of the Wulffs seemed to be that way, for better or worse.

“Taliesin. You should be at your lessons, shouldn’t you?”

“Max.” Taliesin seemed to relax on finding that it was the swordmaster framed in the doorway, but only a bit. Those bright eyes darted past Maxwell, as if wary of someone else who might potentially be following behind the grey-bearded man, then dropped and slid to the side. “I was passing by on an errand for Cooke, and just thought I’d stop by Father’s study for a moment...to look up something for my lessons.”

Maxwell was careful to hide his smile, instead entering the room to turn a stern look down on the boy, bushy, beetled brows drawn down low over sharp, dark eyes.

“Were you now? And what sort of ‘something’ were you hoping to find relating to your sums in that particular book, lad?”

Taliesin gave a subtle wince at that question, the sheepish, apologetic half-smile that came to his face as he looked up at his oldest teacher a clear indicator that he knew he’d been caught out, and there was no use spinning further tales to get out of telling the truth.

 _Intelligent indeed,_ Maxwell thought with warm approval. _Knows when he’s beaten and isn’t fool enough to pretend he isn’t. Which is more than many older and supposedly wiser men would be wont to admit under similar circumstances._

And sure enough, the next explanation Taliesin gave rang true: “...Declan said that Father had gotten a new book on dragons, and I wanted to see it for myself.” _Before Declan could sneak in and see it first,_ was the undertone of that statement--Maxwell knew children, and what’s more he knew _brothers_ well enough to understand that much.

Maxwell looked down his beak-like nose at the lad, studying him closely enough that Taliesin squirmed beneath his gaze. “...Declan, eh.” It was clear from the grizzled old swordsmaster’s tone that he bore little enough love for the arl’s second son; though only seven, he’d already proven to be something of a horror, being both glib and sharp of tongue in a manner that went beyond mere childishness, as well as notoriously careless in his mistreatment of animals and servants. That carelessness extended to inanimate objects, to possessions and property--particularly when the item in question belonged to someone other than Declan himself. The last new book that Gallagher had received, Maxwell suddenly recalled, had been dropped in a mud puddle by a certain Wulff child...and likely not on accident, either. The book had been utterly ruined, only a few pages of the whole lot still entirely legible, and while Gallagher had meted out fitting punishment, in Maxwell’s opinion, it hadn’t been nearly harsh enough.

With that in mind, it was far more understandable, why Taliesin would want to slip away and have a look at the book as soon as possible. It didn’t change the fact that he’d abandoned his proper duties, but it put things in a more positive perspective, somewhat.

“Get back to your lessons, boy,” Maxwell harrumphed, his tone gruff; Taliesin, well used to the swordsmaster’s bark (which was truly not even half as bad as his bite, though he only rarely ‘bit’ anyone these days), watched with open curiosity as Maxwell scooped up the book, tucking it under his arm and looking down at his charge with a grim set to his jaw. “I’m taking charge of this book for now. Heard somewhere that it might help certain young future arls focus on their sums, and it wouldn’t do for anything ill to befall it.”

A slow, wide smile spread across the redheaded boy’s face, though a moment later he swiftly masked it, setting his mouth in a firm line and nodding solemnly up at the swordsmaster. “Yes, of course, Max. That would be terrible indeed.”

Maxwell’s free hand came up to clap the lad on the shoulder, and slim as the boy was, it nearly forced him to take a step to the side to keep his balance.

“Let’s get back to it, then...though I think it was time for a break from the books anyhow. It’s on to practicing your swordsmanship now, lad.”

Taliesin gave a nod of acceptance, heading for the door without comment or protest, and Maxwell watched him go for a moment before following after. Most boys his age would’ve been ecstatic at the chance to learn swordplay, but Tal, though not a reluctant student in the least, didn’t seem especially interested or enthralled by it either. It was something expected of him, and he did want to learn about it; it simply wasn’t something that brought the same eager light to his eyes as...well, books about dragons, it would seem.

 _So long as he learns well enough to hold his own on the field of battle, ‘tis no matter, I suppose,_ the brawny swordsmaster thought to himself, secreting the dragon-book away in his personal chest of arms as he donned his set of leather practice armour. _Perhaps an arl who knows how to fight, but takes no pleasure in it is just what the West Hills will need in the future._

Soon the quick staccato clack of wooden swords rapping against each other was echoing through the training hall--Taliesin was still too young and not strong enough to wield a real sword, though judging by the extra bit of skin visible at the ends of his shirt-sleeves, it wouldn’t be much longer now until that was a thing of the past.

“Tell me something I don’t know about Ferelden,” Taliesin often said as they sparred, taking a quick double step sideways and twisting a bit to avoid Maxwell’s blade. It was tradition by now, a request he made every time they practiced like this. Many times, the swordsmaster humored him and told him about the cool shadows of the Brecilian Forest and the crafty Dalish who lived there, or the rough and rocky but inhospitable beauty of Alamar, or of the rush and hiss of the Waking Sea around Amaranthine. Oftentimes, it turned into a history lesson instead, and he told the boy of how King Calenhad had united the Alamarri tribes to form their nation, or how the Grey Wardens had been banished from Ferelden by the tyrannical King Arland Theirin back in 7:5 Storm, or of how the waters had run red at Harper’s Ford just a handful of years before Taliesin himself had been born.

“Tell me about your life before you served my father,” was the other, alternate question Taliesin was wont to ask during their practice sessions, and Maxwell was generally less inclined to humor the young lordling when he himself was the topic of conversation. He’d told the lad tales of his life as a mercenary, and even about parts of his childhood in Redcliffe; but though Tal had questioned and pressed and come at the topic many different ways, never had he told the boy of what had first taken him away from Redcliffe, or what he’d done in the one score and ten years between that and his mercenary days.

“Everyone has parts of their past they aren’t particularly keen to share, lad,” he’d told the boy many a time. He said the same again, this time adding a double-handed downward strike, an attempt to break through his student’s guard, as well as one final statement: “And there’s little enough to be proud of when it comes to tales of hunting down men, women, and even children like dogs.”

“But Max,” Taliesin replied, a guilelessly inquisitive light in those too-bright eyes as the boy strained to parry that particularly forceful blow from his grey-bearded but steel-armed instructor. “You’ve already told me plenty of stories about your days as a mercenary.”

“Aye, lad, that I have.”

Abruptly Maxwell stepped back, and Taliesin let out an audible gasp of relief at the sudden disappearance of that overwhelming pressure against his wooden blade. Waving the boy away to signal that their practice was done for the day, he turned and took the dragon-book back out of his chest of arms and passed it into Taliesin’s eager grasp; and though a significant part of Tal’s attention was still on Max himself, the swordsmaster didn’t look over or down to meet that curious gaze, his own attention focused on stilling the subtle tremor running through his hands.

“That I have.”


	2. Chapter 2

Family meals in the Wulff household were always a warm, comfortable affair. Arl Gallagher Wulff and his wife, Brigid Van Markham Wulff, were both very busy individuals. Gallagher was constantly out on patrols, keeping an eye on or leading skirmishes with the nearby Avvar tribes as well as regularly and personally interacting with the Freeholders and vassals who lived and worked on the arling’s farms; he spent a few weeks out of each year in Denerim also, meeting with the other arls, the teyrnirs, the banns, and at times even the king himself. Brigid was equally assiduous, handling Gallagher’s duties as arl whenever he was away, right down to going out on patrols and engaging in fights. She also spent a great deal of her time personally training the arling’s soldiers: while she was considered a relatively unimportant member of Nevarran nobility, being the third child of a fourth son, she had still been taught the art of war from a young age, and had excelled at swordplay and archery in particular.

And yet, despite their indisputably active lives, both Brigid and Gallagher were very firm about having the whole family sit down to at least one meal together each day. Most of the time that meal was supper, since Gallagher often rose at dawn while Brigid’s one real concession to luxury was sleeping in until mid-morning; meanwhile, the older children were expected to rise around the time that breakfast would be ready, usually a few hours after dawn, while three-year-old Gobnait was, of course, left to sleep as long as possible.

Of course, there were times when one of Brigid’s trips home to Nevarra, or Gallagher being summoned to Denerim, or a particularly persistent illness among the children made it impossible to share that meal and time together. That, however, only made them all the more serious about doing it whenever they could--Brigid and Gallagher had both ridden through the night on more than one occasion to be certain that they would be home for the next day’s evening meal. Maxwell the Hunter, the arling's swordmaster, was among the many of their soldiers who had rolled their eyes a bit at this stubborn insistence on a nearly daily tradition, but in truth it warmed the old man’s heart to see a family so happy and so complete.

Taliesin enjoyed the meals themselves well enough--the food was good, thought it was something of a trial to sit across from Declan, who was often inclined to show off mouthfuls of half-chewed food when their parents weren’t looking, or to ‘accidentally’ kick his brother in the shins. This was made more bearable by the fact that he had Cait sitting to his left, his favourite sibling and a constant conspirator and commiserator where their troublesome younger brother was concerned. But it was the hour or so after the meals that Tal truly treasured. That time was usually spent with Gallagher comfortably ensconced in his chair beside a roaring fire in his and Brigid’s private quarters, his wife seated in a matching chair across from him, all five children sprawled on the floor on the bearskin rug stretched out between them. Most often Gallagher read to them until they dropped off to sleep one by one, though sometimes the reader was Brigid, or sometimes they discussed various happenings in the arling or their lives rather than reading. Tal loved to stretch out on his pleasantly-full stomach, one cheek resting against the shaggy, slightly musty fur of the rug, often with the heat of the fireplace on one side and the warmth of one or more of his siblings’ bodies pressed up against his other side as they all lolled on the floor together like puppies. Even Declan joined the pile, and was too taken with the stories and the comfort of curling up together with his brother and sisters to cause any of them even the smallest sort of grief. Because that time was important to all of them, from the infamously cool-faced Brigid and kindhearted but gruff Gallagher to tiny three-year-old Gobnait, who never once cried or threw any sort of tantrum once they were all in that room together.

It was special, a space filled with warmth, happiness, and contentment; and for Taliesin, even years later, it would always remain an important memory of simpler times in a safe place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I took some liberties with a few things in this chapter, one of those being a canon family's make-up. I know what I did, but this whole story is set in the somewhat-AU DA Tabletop RPG World that my friend created, so things that are "fact" according to the Dragon Age wiki...might not be exactly the same here.
> 
> TL;DR, don't like, don't read.

Taliesin heaved an inward sigh and tried not to roll his eyes as he led the guest entrusted to his care towards the stable, as requested. It seemed an unnecessary sort of chore to him: Nathaniel Howe had no reason to visit the stables so soon after his arrival in West Hills with his father, Arl Rendon Howe. They’d scarcely finished their mid-day meal, which they’d had nearly as soon as the Howes had dismounted from their horses; what call could Nathaniel have for wanting to visit the stables? But the Howe heir was insistent on looking in on his horse, which he claimed was a bit skittish and might need further exercise. Taliesin was certain the other boy, who was four years his senior and thus not really a _boy_ any longer, was simply overly proud of his horsemanship skills, and wanted to lord it over someone else. Taliesin had been the obvious choice _(more like victim, I’d say,_ he’d muttered under his breath to nine-year-old Cait, the next-oldest of the Wulff children, and his sister had maintained her usual solemn expression but nodded her agreement), so there they were, headed for the stables.

“My father was a part of the Ferelden Rebellion, did you know that?” Nathaniel had begun as soon as they’d stepped foot out of the great hall, and he hadn’t let up since, waxing almost poetic about his family’s history and the depth and worth of all the treasures they kept in their trophy room. Taliesin struggled to be polite, keeping in mind his father’s and Max’s words about how a young future-arl should treat his guests, but remaining courteous and paying attention to everything the other boy was saying was proving difficult.

Nathaniel was not his favourite of the Howe children, that much was certain. Miriam was a less common visitor, and she had been all right, he supposed, though she hadn’t been particularly friendly towards Taliesin or the rest of his siblings, thus he hadn’t been particularly quick to step in when Declan made her the primary target of his rather unpleasant attentions. There was a third sibling, however, and she had met with much more favour--enough so that Taliesin had actually been looking forward to seeing her once again, and had been disappointed to find that she hadn’t accompanied her father and brother this time...which seemed strange, since Arl Howe had given both Tal and Gallagher a faint, unreadable half-smile as he’d all but promised to bring Verity again whenever he next came to the West Hills arling.

“Where’s your sister?” Tal finally interjected once they were nearly at the stables, curiosity finally overcoming courtesy. “The younger one, I mean. Verity. She came with you the last time you visited-”

“Miriam is my only sister now,” Nathaniel said with a sniff, clearly irritated at having his one-sided discussion of his family’s apparently impressive war-stories interrupted. “Father and mother said we weren’t to speak of Verity any more.”

Tal frowned, confusion clouding his features as he stopped in his tracks and stared at the older boy askance. “What? Why not? What happened to her?”

 _“You’re_ keen, aren’t you? Why?” Nathaniel’s lips pulled into an unpleasant sort of smirk, one that reminded Tal of Declan just enough to set his teeth on edge. “Were you _interested_ in her?”

It was true that some part of Taliesin had found Verity quite pretty--though he was still too young to acknowledge that even to himself, much less openly admit it to anyone else--but more than that, she had been kind. He’d liked her gentle voice and her soft grey eyes, and they’d had much more in common than he’d expected. She also didn’t preach at length about the glorious nobility of her family, which already made her entire _worlds_ more likable than her older brother. She’d seemed happy to escape Nathaniel’s presence as well during that last visit, and the two children had spent a long, pleasant afternoon together hiding in the loft with half a dozen books borrowed from Gallagher’s library. Together they’d acted out scenes from the more exciting books, puzzled out other, more mature-sounding passages about ancient oaths, political intrigue, and hot nights full of heavy breathing in darkened bedchambers--all occasionally interrupted by Nathaniel’s raised, clearly irritated voice as he searched for them, at which point they’d each clapped a hand over the other’s mouth to stifle their giggles, then hurriedly buried themselves beneath the straw. They’d accidentally fallen asleep like that the final time they’d hidden from Nathaniel, and had awakened much later in the evening to frantic calls from nearly the entire Wulff household of servants and hired hands. Sheepishly they’d descended from the loft, clothing mussed and hair full of straw, clutching the books tightly to their chests as the cooks and maids fussed over them and the valets and huntsmen shook their heads and smirked. They’d both been ten at the time, so forgiveness was quick and easy, though they’d still received a stern lecture from all three of the parents in attendance about causing trouble for others.

It had been nearly two years since he’d seen her, but even so Taliesin didn’t pause before issuing an immediate answer: “Verity is my friend. Of course I’m interested in her.” His frown deepened, touched with something bordering on accusatory as he added, “You’re her _brother._ You should be interested in her, too.”

That intentionally needling statement did the trick, it seemed--not that it was ever particularly hard to make Nathaniel talk, from what Tal had seen (and heard) so far.

Nathaniel shot a quick look around, scanning their surroundings, before leaning in to snap out his answer in a harsh whisper. “All right, _look._ I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but _you_ might just bring it up with my father himself if I don’t settle this now, and I can’t have that. Especially not since my father was the one who sent her off to the Circle.”

Tal’s jaw dropped, his gaze uncomprehending. “...What?”

“She used magic!” Nathaniel spat, his words a sharp, low hiss. “She was a mage! A bloody witch! She set fire to her own bed and likely would’ve burned the whole manor to the ground with all of us in it if Miriam hadn’t woken up right away and doused the flames with her wash-basin!”

Taliesin’s mind was still reeling, struggling to accept that the dark-haired girl with the gentle grey eyes he knew--or had thought he’d known--could turn out to be something so dangerous. _Surely...surely not...it has to be a lie..._

“...But...if she’s still alive, then why aren’t you supposed to speak of her any more?” Mages were dangerous, certainly, but were they really so bad that the Howes had to pretend she’d never existed?

“I just told you! She’s a _mage!”_

“She’s your _sister!_ Your _family!”_

“Not anymore.” The note of grim finality in Nathaniel’s voice brought Taliesin up short. “My father said that it’s shameful to have a mage in the family--that kind of thing tends to run in your blood, and like begets like, so a mage is more likely to have _children_ who are mages. Which, as you can imagine, isn't a good thing to have in your bloodline.” He gave an expansive shrug, as careless as if he were talking about removing a moldy tapestry. “Of course, there were no apostates in the Howe family, so this can only be seen as a fluke. A dead branch to be pruned from the family tree before it causes the rest of us any harm, and does undue damage to our justifiably distinguished reputation.”

It sounded so cold, what Nathaniel was saying, and to say such a thing about his own sister… Taliesin tried to put himself in Nathaniel’s place, to imagine what he would feel if Cait was suddenly found to be a mage...and he couldn’t see himself simply shrugging it off or speaking about her so carelessly. Nonetheless, Verity was Nathaniel’s sister, not Tal’s, and friendship was a tenuous claim compared to blood where nobility was involved; so though the older boy’s words rankled more than a bit, the redheaded Wulff heir simply bit his lip and said nothing, grimly turning to continue their trip to the stables.

“Don’t act so shocked, little wolf,” Nathaniel said with a chuckle as he fell into step beside Tal, whose shoulders tensed visibly as the older boy clapped a hand to his back. “Reputation is _important_ to a noble house. You should know that by now.”

Taliesin did his best to step away from that lingering hand resting directly between his shoulder blades, but Nathaniel kept pace with him as they stepped into the stables, and that hand stayed firmly in place.

“Why, if that dark-eyed sister of yours was discovered to be a mage today, I’d help them drag her down to the Circle myself--and your father would _thank me_ for the good deed done for the sake of his family’s name.”

If Nathaniel had been paying attention to anything but the sound of his own voice, he might have noticed just how deathly still Taliesin had gone, or been able to read the obvious anger in the white knuckles of the younger boy's clenched fists or the pugnacious set of his jaw. Instead, Nathaniel kept talking...and this time, he went just a bit too far.

“That would be a shame, though. She’s a pretty little thing… Cait, isn’t it? Perhaps I’ll-”

Whatever else Nathaniel had been intending to say would remain forever unspoken: the rest of his words, along with a mouthful of blood and part of a chipped molar, were smashed back down his throat when Taliesin whirled with all the vicious lupine speed of his family’s namesake, and slammed his left fist upwards into the unsuspecting older boy’s face.


	4. Chapter 4

“...While I understand your concerns, Rendon, I should think that this is a matter to take up with the arl of South Reach.”

Rendon Howe gave an irritable shake of his head, arms crossed over his chest defensively. “You know Leonas won’t speak to me, Gallagher.”

“Considering your past history and current friendship, I would have thought you’d turn to Bryce Cousland before my husband, Lord Howe,” Brigid commented, her tone polite and smooth for all the chill mistrust in her green-eyed gaze. “It leads one to wonder why you sought us out instead.”

After a rather hasty lunch, the Wulffs had retired with Rendon Howe in the arl’s private study, the lord and lady both curious as to what had brought the other arl and his son to their door unannounced and uninvited. Rendon claimed to have received intelligence regarding certain Orlesian spies--a very possible threat to King Maric’s continued reign and Ferelden's continued freedom--who had taken shelter in the Brecilian Forest. That location was the chief cause of their confusion (and on Brigid’s part, suspicion) regarding Rendon’s presence: for that area was in the charge of Leonas Bryland, Arl of South Reach, on the opposite side of the country from the Wulff holdings.

“Indeed…”

Another voice joined the conversation for the first time: that of Mathuin Wulff, Gallagher’s younger brother. Mathuin was infamously shrewd, so much so that it almost slewed outright into cunning, and his dark, watchful eyes and constant crooked smiles made it difficult for many to trust him, particularly when he was set in contrast with his much more open and honourable older brother. The two could not have looked less like siblings; Gallagher was nearly a giant, his frame large, broad, and powerful, his hair and beard a sandy brown, while Mathuin was slim and lean and not nearly so tall, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face. It was said that Gallagher took after their father and Mathuin after their mother, though there had been whispered suspicions of the nearly ten-years-younger brother being a bastard rather than a true heir.

Gallagher and Mathuin’s father, Diarmait Wulff, had paid the rumours no mind, treating his sons as equally as possible...but he hadn’t done anything to stop the rumours, either. Diarmait was a hard man, with little patience for ‘the cheap bandying of words, when actions carry more weight’; any true son of his should be able to handle hearing that sort of absurd prattle, and come out none the worse for it, or so he’d believed. Still, true son or not, Gallagher could see that the years of slander had twisted his brother in ways that he himself would likely never understand, leaving Mathuin deeply resentful of their father even now, years after his death (and, had the arl known it, somewhat bitter towards Gallagher himself as well). But they were brothers, regardless, and Gallagher trusted his brother’s skill with words, for better or worse.

“After all,” Mathuin went on pleasantly, “When one leaves Amaranthine, one needs must pass by Highever before before coming to West Hills. Which means we are _decidedly_ out of your way, Arl Howe...unless going out of your way was your intent?” The younger Wulff tilted his head, trying and failing to make eye contact with Rendon, who simply gave a low huff of irritation and looked the other way, leaving Mathuin to smirk at that all-too-telling reaction. “My, my. A quarrel with the Couslands, perhaps? Did Bryce reject your attempt to pair off his young firebrand of a daughter with your...son?”

It was naught but a slight, if pointed, pause, a simple omission of any sort of descriptor, either bad or good; but in that setting, the lack of words meant more, weighed heavier, and was more condemning than any words could have possibly been.

“Mathuin,” Gallagher said, a note of warning in his tone. His brother’s sharp tongue had gotten the both of them in trouble on more than one occasion, and the Arl of West Hills had no wish to offend the Arl of Amaranthine, particularly over pointless and potentially untrue gossip.

As ever, Mathuin’s response to his brother’s censure was an easy smile and a vague, almost amused shaking of his head. “Forgive me, Arl Howe. I did not mean to imply that your son was in any way an undesirable match,” he said, coupling his apology, such as it was, with a shallow bow. “Still, if something minor like that _isn’t_ the reason for the apparent strain between yourself and Teyrn Cousland...then my dear sister-in-law’s curiosity seems quite pertinent to our present topic of discussion.” Spreading his hands and giving an amicable smile, complete with innocently wide eyes and inquisitively-raised eyebrows, Mathuin asked, “What, pray tell, has turned you from his door to ours?”

At that moment there was the sound of raised voices in the great hall, followed by many loud footsteps coming down the corridor towards the arl’s private study. All four of the room’s occupants turned their heads towards the door, which opened moments later to admit a thunderous-looking Maxwell, followed by the huntmaster and the arling’s brawniest blacksmith, both hauling a scowling, roughed-up boy along with them.

“T’would seem the young masters got into a bit of a scuffle,” Maxwell rumbled, turning a stare that was rife with admonishment down on a very sullen-looking Taliesin. Tal was glaring hard at the tops of his boots, his face flushed red to the tips of his ears, but the set of his (visibly bruised) jaw told everyone in the room who knew to look for it that so far as the fight itself was concerned, he felt not a shred of regret. He didn’t look up until his mother had come around the table, her gait purposeful but unhurried, and reached for his chin, tipping his face upwards into the light to inspect it. The bruised jaw, a split lip, and some shallow scratches across his forehead were the sum of the damage to his face, and Brigid took it all in stride; she didn’t fuss or tut or scold him, simply reaching into a pocket and pulling out a plain, sparingly embroidered handkerchief to press against the cut on his mouth.

“Nathaniel! What is the meaning of this?” Rendon Howe growled, crossing the room to seize his son roughly by the arm. Nathaniel kept his head down and didn’t answer, avoiding his father’s gaze, though he still wasn’t quite able to hide the fact that his left eye was already nearly swollen shut, or that there was blood drying on his cheek and the collar of his shirt. Rendon gave another growl, then turned to the Wulffs, his expression both grim and regretful. “My apologies. It would seem that the matter I wished to discuss with you today will have to wait. If you are yet willing to hear me out, I’ll call again later this week... _without_ my son this time, I think.”

“You have my apology as well, Rendon,” Gallagher rumbled, a warning thunder in his voice. “I’ll see to it that my son receives adequate punishment for this unacceptable breach of our family’s hospitality.”

“Indeed, we shall look forward to your return,” Mathuin said smoothly, sweeping up beside Arl Howe and placing himself at the man’s shoulder, ready to see him off in his brother’s stead.

As Rendon dragged Nathaniel from the room, Tal couldn’t resist baring his teeth at the other boy, which only set his lip bleeding again, earning him a skeptical arched eyebrow from Brigid as she passed the handkerchief to him. _Slow the blood yourself, then, once you’re ready to stop your foolish growling,_ she said without saying aloud, and her eldest child subsided with an atypical meekness beneath her stern gaze.

Once the Howes had gone, the arlessa turned her head, exchanging a long look with Gallagher, who came forward to take Tal’s arm from the still-scowling Maxwell, pulling his son farther into the room. By the time they reached the fireside, Brigid had ushered everyone else out of the room and was stepping outside as well, closing the door behind herself.

Tal didn’t resist his father’s grip, though Gallagher released him as soon as they were standing on the flagstones before the fireplace, where the youth stood in expectant, somewhat less stony silence, pressing Brigid’s handkerchief to his mouth.

“Taliesin,” Gallagher said after a nerve-wrecking space of silence, and the boy straightened, tensing slightly as his father’s heavy gaze settled on him. “You are my eldest, my heir, and as such, it is time you learned what it really means to be nobility.”

A shadow briefly passed over the little redhead’s face as he remembered Nathaniel’s speeches and airs, something Gallagher didn’t miss, and the broad man couldn’t hide the fact that one corner of his mouth was pulling upwards.

“Nay, my son, you needn’t fear that I hold the same opinions as the Howes, though they are correct in their belief that it is a duty to be taken very seriously. However, I should say that our responsibility is to our people, the people of this arling. They are the ones who make us who we are, after all, and if we did naught to protect them, we should soon find ourselves without anyone to govern.”

Taliesin gave a slow nod, clearly understanding that much, so Arl Wulff went on, “To that end, be it through something as terrible as open warfare between nations, as seemingly commonplace as passing judgment in the everyday lives of our people, or as trivial as keeping the peace between our family and those of other nobility, we must take care in our words and actions. We should always seek to mend hurts, not cause them.” Here his half-smile grew a bit more, and he couldn’t seem to resist adding, “Though I cannot say that I did not find _some_ measure of enjoyment, nor take some pride in the fact that, despite being nearly five years your elder, young Nathaniel seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage in your quarrel.”

Taliesin’s chest puffed out visibly at that, and for a moment, the fire reflecting in those sharp green eyes was not solely that of the hearth. Then Gallagher gave a pointed clearing of his throat, regaining his previous solemn appearance, and Taliesin subsided a bit once more, though there was still the glinting promise of embers in his gaze.

“I’m going to say something that I don’t want you repeating, do you understand, Tal?” When the boy nodded again, Gallagher continued, “The Howes can be unpleasant, believe me when I say that I am well aware of that. You never knew old Tarlton Howe…”

“Was he worse than Nathaniel?” Taliesin asked, taking his mother’s handkerchief away from his lip just long enough to get those words out, though even that was enough to set the blood flowing fresh.

Once again Gallagher struggled and ultimately failed to keep a straight face at that very serious but also somewhat sulky-sounding question, finally giving in and shaking his head with a chuckle. “He was far worse, a sharp, bitter old man whose actions led to many unnecessary deaths, including his own. Maxwell has told you of Harper’s Ford, no doubt.”

The brawny arl gave a small smile of satisfaction as he watch Taliesin’s eyes widen on making the connection.

“Aye, ‘tis the same Tarleton Howe. He was Arl Rendon Howe’s father, and if I were to be entirely honest, I wouldn’t have minded blacking one or both of _his_ eyes myself.” Crossing his arms over his brawny chest, the hulking arl looked down, and _down,_ at his son. “Now, tell me what happened between you. I promised Rendon that you would be suitably punished, but I cannot do so until I know what caused the fight.”

“I wasn’t in the wrong, Father,” Tal stated, raising his chin to meet his father’s gaze, and though it was a statement, there was an earnest seeking of approval there on his befreckled face. “Nathaniel said something awful about Cait, and I couldn’t simply stand by and _let_ him-”

“Words are words, Taliesin,” Gallagher broke in, tone firm and unyielding, his expression suddenly hard. “You’ll learn far too soon that many nobles sling them about carelessly--or with _seeming_ carelessness, seeking to get a rise out of their targets. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

“But he said-”

“I can only imagine what he said, to make you this angry. Glad as I am that you wish to protect your sister, her honor and her happiness, you must learn to pay attention to words, but believe actions.” He shook his head wryly. “Mathuin is far better at this sort of thing than I, truth be told. Perhaps I’ll have to ask him to give you a lesson or two in statecraft, to see if you have the knack for such... But even one like myself who is more warrior than politician knows not to take words too much to heart. They are important, aye, but they are not worth spilling blood over, be it yours or someone else’s.”

Taliesin turned that over in his mind, then nodded once again, realizing the truth of it. After all, it generally was best to keep a handle on one’s temper, to run cold rather than hot, to meet words with equally sharp words rather than sharper steel. Nathaniel likely hadn’t truly meant any of what he’d said; but Tal simply hadn’t been able to bear hearing Cait spoken of as if she were naught more than a possession, a chess piece, something less than human. The very idea of his sister being forced to bow her proud, dark head to the Howe’s long line of tradition set Taliesin’s teeth on edge even now.

_And it will never happen. **Never.** Not if I, heir to the West Hills arling, have anything to say about it._

“Now then, on to the matter of your punishment…”

Taliesin winced visibly, then raised his head, his expression so clearly that of a man ready to face the waiting gallows that Gallagher almost couldn’t suppress a low chuckle as he went on:

“I think a week of helping the stable hands muck out the stalls, and perhaps assisting the huntsmaster with looking after the hounds as well might not be too harsh a punishment, all things considered.”

Taliesin had pulled bit of a face at the first task, though he brightened considerably when the arl added the second, and had to struggle to mirror and maintain his father’s solemn bearing. “Yes, father,” he nodded, doing his best to look both grave and penitent, unconsciously lowering his voice into an almost-mockery of his father’s rumbling tones. “Your judgement is most fair.” 

Gallagher shook his head slightly, not entirely able to keep the fond smile from his face any longer as he rested one large hand on his oldest child’s back with a warmth and gentleness that few would’ve expected from so brawny a man. “Was there aught else, my son?”

For a moment Taliesin wavered on the brink of curiosity, poised to ask about Verity, about whether it was true that Arl Howe had abandoned her, about whether she was really a mage....and about what his own father would do in such a situation. The words were right there on the tip of his tongue, begging to be given breath-- _what would you do if Cait--if any one of us--turned out to be a mage?_ \--but for some reason the boy found himself reluctant to broach the subject. Perhaps it was for Verity’s sake....or perhaps it was for the Howes. Because whether or not they still considered her one of theirs, Taliesin had no doubt that Verity would still consider them to be hers. If she truly had been disowned, abandoned, sent away forever, then asking about it would only cause further grief to everyone involved.

_No,_ Taliesin decided. _Let the Howes keep the peace and security in their position that they had bought with Verity’s freedom. Better to let her pain be worth something. Even if they don’t deserve it._

“...No, Father,” he said aloud smiling as best he could around the handkerchief and his split lip. “There’s nothing else.”


End file.
